What's in a Name
by Lady-of-the-Refrigerator
Summary: "What do you want, Elizabeth? It's late." Liz took a deep breath and let it out slowly through her nose. What a loaded question that was. "Your name," she answered. [Lizzington, vague S6 spoilers]


Liz could tell Red was tired. At least as tired as she was, if not more so—and not just physically. In her case, her physical exhaustion couldn't even begin to compete with her emotional exhaustion. Even so, after everything that had happened in the last few months, all the lies and subterfuge, her relief that it was finally over was… indescribable.

The fact that she was still by Red's side—and he by hers—was an unexpected outcome but not, as she might have thought that day at Tom's grave, a disappointing one. Hunting down the truth about Red certainly wasn't what she expected it to be, at least not once he began to face very real threats to his safety, which happened so fast she barely had time to regret how she might have contributed to bringing it about before she'd been forced to go on the defensive.

Everything was brought into very sharp focus for Liz very quickly, and the help that she'd been able offer Red along the way had been frustratingly limited. As chaos swirled, she felt like she had lost every last ounce of control over what was happening to him, to both of them. She felt… powerless.

Red's own words from a lifetime ago had echoed in her mind and _that_ particular nugget of wisdom became something for her to come to terms with all over again, much to her dismay.

Because he'd been right—love _was_ feeling powerless. Against their enemies, against her own anger, against the inexorable pull towards the inevitable conclusion of the battle between them, a conclusion she'd been fighting since he'd come into her life.

At the end of it all, Liz discovered that there was but one simple, often exasperating truth in their lives: no matter who Red really was, he loved her; no matter who he was, she still loved him.

She just wished that tonight he'd chosen to hide out somewhere more comfortable to drown his sorrows than a drafty stone stairwell in his latest safe house. She was _tired_. He wasn't making this easy.

"I guess your masochistic streak is still as strong as ever," Liz said, as she stood over him.

Red curled in on himself and huddled against the wall of the stairwell, a pathetic sounding whine muffled in the back of his throat.

"If you're waiting for the stones to swallow you up, I don't think you're gonna have much luck."

"What do you want, Elizabeth? It's late."

Liz took a deep breath and let it out slowly through her nose. What a loaded question that was. She wanted… a lot of things. Things she could have, things she couldn't. But right now? If she was totally honest with herself and stripped everything down to the barest, most immediate want?

"Your name," she answered.

"Excuse me?"

"I want your name. Not the how or the why or anything else… Just your name. Your first name. That's all," she said. "That can't be too dangerous, can it? What am I supposed to do with only a first name anyway?"

He stayed silent; the ice in his drink cracked and popped as it melted, sloshing around in his glass. Liz rolled her eyes and, with a heavy sigh, turned to walk away. Tomorrow was another day.

"Nicholas," he called after her, his voice quiet and rough enough to be nearly unintelligible.

"What?"

"My name. It's Nicholas."

"Nicholas," Liz repeated, feeling an odd frisson of giddiness and an absurd impulse she didn't want to fight.

So she didn't fight it.

She held out her hand and he eyed it for a moment, bemused and a little wary, before he reached out and grasped it.

"I'm Elizabeth Keen," she said, giving his hand a nice, firm shake, "I used to be Masha Rostova, but I don't really remember that."

The corner of his mouth twitched in a hint of a smile and he inclined his head in acknowledgement. They really did have some things in common, didn't they? Did Red lose Nicholas the same night she lost Masha for good, Liz wondered? The night she pulled the trigger on her own father and this man stepped in to take up his mantle? Possibly. Probably. A rebirth of sorts, for both of them.

Liz lowered herself to sit down next to him on the cold, hard stone; he didn't move away even though she sat close enough for their ankles to touch. In fact, he shifted subtly so their calves touched, too. She pretended not to notice. She pretended not to enjoy it.

Her thoughts were at war with each other. On one hand, she felt a strange sense of peace, to finally know something so personal about the man behind the facade. On the other, she couldn't possibly be more curious about the rest.

She could be satisfied for now with just his name, but she knew soon enough that her drive to know even more about him would win out. It always did. Her curiosity was insatiable as far as he was concerned.

Could their relationship weather _that_ inevitable storm?

More than likely. It had weathered the rest of them, hadn't it? And now she had his name as a touchstone to keep her tethered to the reality that he was just a man like any man, a man who made great sacrifices in his life, a man who loved her.

"So Nick's Pizza…?"

Red sighed and shook his head, taking a large swig of his drink before coughing to clear his throat. "I didn't want to be lying to you every time you answered your goddamn phone."

"Geez. I don't even want to _think_ about what your brain must be like when you're trying to rationalize something like that."

He snorted into his glass. "We all have our little hang ups."

"What do I call you now? I can't call you Nick. That would be… strange."

Red met her gaze and held it; she felt warmth spread through her body like she'd taken a sip of his drink.

"And you wouldn't want anything about our relationship to be strange, would you?"

Liz's cheeks burned despite herself. "You know what I mean. When I hear that name, all I can think of is… is my almost-fiancé."

"Can't have that," he said, and looked away again.

Liz studied his profile, trying to puzzle through his expression, his odd sarcastic tone of voice. What was he saying? Was he trying to imply that he _wanted_ her to think of him that way? 'Fiancé' implied a promise, a commitment that might hold some kernel of truth, but it was such a quaint, normal term. Their relationship was so far beyond conventional, she didn't think there was a way to define it anymore. All of the labels she could come up with were inadequate.

"How about Nicky?"

He made a face. "Nicky? Really?"

"I didn't get a say in Lizzy."

He fell quiet again. The ice continued to crack in his glass and the sound of it reverberated in the otherwise still air.

"My mother used to call me Nicky," he said, after a while. "I dropped it by the end of junior high, but she didn't live long enough for that."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

He shrugged and took another swig from his drink, keeping his eyes downturned.

Well.

Chalk up another tidbit of information about him she could file away. Liz couldn't help but think that the early death of his mother explained a lot about him—and about his deep devotion to those who played pivotal roles in his life.

She reached out suddenly and took the glass from his hand; before he could scramble to take it back, she downed the rest in one burning gulp, the ice clinking and crashing against her teeth.

"Why did you do that?"

"You've had enough," she said. "What are you trying to do? Slowly pickle yourself?"

"No. Not slowly."

"Why on earth would you do that? Against all odds, you're free and you're just going to… to…"

"I've spent half my life as a different person, with two basic goals above all else. And I succeeded. I'm finished. And I'm _alive_ —that wasn't really the outcome I expected. Or planned for, to be completely honest. I don't see what else I have to live for now that it's over."

"You have me," she said. "You have Agnes."

"I do?"

Liz set the glass down on the stairs and pushed herself to her feet, brushing her hands off on her jeans.

"You know, you're right, it's late," she said, holding her hand out to him for the second time that night. "Let's get to bed."

"What?" he said, and the shock and confusion on his face was priceless. Endearing, actually.

"Come on. I want to keep an eye on you tonight."

For the second time that night, he grasped her hand. He allowed her to pull him up to stand with her, to steady him when he swayed. She didn't have to grab hold of his waist specifically to do so, but she did anyway and he didn't seem to mind. He didn't pull away.

Liz swallowed hard. She searched his face as best as she could from so close, the scent of alcohol tickling her nostrils from the breaths escaping his slightly parted lips. He watched her, intent in a way she could never manage if she'd had as much to drink as he had. She could hardly even manage it after what little had been left in his glass.

She collected her thoughts and then collected him, leading him down the hall, bypassing his bedroom and Dembe's, until she came to a stop in front of her own door. She caught Red's eye and raised a finger to her lips, before carefully turning the knob.

Liz could tell when Red noticed Agnes by the tiny, almost involuntary smile tugging at his lips.

Agnes' small bed was tucked into the corner by the nightstand and the little girl was already asleep in it. There'd been no use trying to give Agnes her own bedroom. Ever since Liz had come to pick her up from Scottie's care, she hadn't wanted to leave Liz's side. The only other person Agnes really wanted to spend any amount of time with was Red—and, oh, how that always seemed to pull him out of his melancholy for a while…

Liz tugged on his hand so he would follow her further into the room and shut the door again behind them. She pushed his unbuttoned vest off his shoulders and slipped his tie from under his collar, folding them neatly and setting them down on the chair next to her bed. Next, she turned her attention to his dress shirt, pulling the shirttails out of his waistband and making quick work of the buttons he hadn't yet undone for comfort. She slid it off his shoulders, too, but before she could turn to add it to the growing pile, his hands came up to rest at her waist.

"Lizzy," he said, his voice low, not quite a whisper. He leaned his forehead against hers, grounding himself. "What are we, now? I need… I need some direction. I'm afraid that whatever this is, I'm reading it wrong and I don't think I'm in a good place to handle not knowing for sure."

Liz laid her free hand against the side of his neck, feeling his pulse jump under her fingers. One day not so long ago, she might've thought she'd enjoy his confusion, but there was no real joy in the uncertainty now that the shoe was on the other foot.

"There's been a spark between us lately," she murmured. "Haven't you felt it? I really thought you had."

"Lizzy, you of all people should know how easy it is to come to the conclusion that you're not supposed to trust your own eyes," he said. "But yes. I've felt it."

She let his shirt fall to the floor and took his face in her hands, turned it slowly, gently to one side. She brushed her lips against his cheek, first barely a whisper, a tease, then a lingering kiss, full of as much promise as she could imbue it with.

"When we wake up, when you're sober, we'll… talk."

"Talk," he repeated, and how he made that single word sound so scandalous, she'd never know.

" _Talk_ ," she said again. "One second you don't have anything to live for and the next you're ready to jump my bones."

"What can I say? I'm a hedonist."

"I thought you were a masochist."

"Somehow I manage to be both."

"I guess that's why you like me so much."

He barked a surprised laugh and she couldn't help but join in, reveling in the sensation of their chests shaking with laughter against each other.

"God, what _are_ we?"

"Punch-drunk? Slaphappy?"

She snickered and bent her head to rest against his shoulder, with a sigh. "I love you."

Red's arms tightened around her back. "I love you, too."


End file.
